Paint By Numbers
by cosmic pink
Summary: Eileen and the art of faking progress


_If you receive update notifications for this story, I sincerely apologize. The site's formatting recently—mercilessly__—__laid waste to all of my em-dashes and section dividers._

**paint by numbers**

_Eileen and the art of faking progress_

Twenty plus twenty-one is forty-one.

Twenty times twenty-one is four-hundred-and-twenty.

Twenty minus twenty-one is negative one.

She was released from the hospital five days after That Incident. Electing to get out of her lease as soon as possible, she went to live with her mother in a nondescript suburb that added thirty-two minutes to her average commute. It was a small price to pay for peace of mind, and she told herself she'd be back on her feet in her own place within four months.

The press followed in a steady stream for the first three weeks, but it dried up with her refusal to talk. By the fifteenth day of the first month after That Incident, Eileen Galvin was no longer front-page news.

On the first day of the second month after That Incident, Henry found her. Well, he didn't _find _her—she had told him where she was, but that was back in the hospital (Day Zero). She joked that she had feared him lost and had been considering a search party, but she couldn't imagine that he had wanted to see the only living, breathing, and scarred reminder of their time together. Her broken bones may have miraculously mended, and her bruises may have evaporated overnight, but the numbers were still there. They were faint, but they were there, and she knew he couldn't look at them without seeing them red and raw and mocking.

* * *

She used to love her shoulders. He says now that he loves them, too, but she has her doubts. Watching the numbers shift and ripple every time she reaches for a glass or shrugs off a jacket—a silent sneer, _you're next, Townshend!_—had to be the most un-sexy thing _ever_.

* * *

He kissed her for the first time on the second week of the third month after That Incident (a Tuesday, the seventh). They had been waiting on the fourth subway platform while apartment hunting when she said something offhandedly that made him laugh—and apparently want to kiss her. Of course he tried his best to resume his usual nonchalance—a task undoubtedly made harder when she was giggling like an idiot beside him—but she noticed his cheeks had a little more color than usual for the remainder of the ten minute wait.

After five more weeks and a lot more than a kiss, he told her he had gotten an interview with a design firm three hours north of Ashfield (by car). He also said that he was thinking that maybe she'd want to, you know, come with him for a weekend or something. She did, and she liked it enough that she decided to go with him for more than a weekend when she learned the interviewer had liked _him_ enough to warrant a move. They couldn't afford to live in the city, and it took her awhile to find another desk job, but it felt like progress.

She left her former office for good on the fifth day of the fifth month, but not before she was pulled aside by one of her co-workers. It was understandable that she would want to get away from Ashfield after what had happened, the woman advised with what was supposed to be a knowing look, but that didn't mean she should rush into anything. She took the advice with a patient smile—knowing full well that this woman couldn't _really_ know anything about her situation—before rushing into everything.

* * *

Sometimes when she wakes up in the middle of the night—groggy and disoriented—she sees him cast in shadows that look more like shades of blood and rust and death. He told her once about the ghost he saw through the peephole—the one that looked like him with frightening, vacant eyes and _21/21_ carved into its face—and when she wakes up on these nights, she thinks she can see it if she squints.

She never tells him this, of course.

* * *

On the first day of the sixth month after That Incident, she was preparing their first shared rent check at the desk in their shared, spare bedroom when she had her first epiphany: this was a _Relationship_. This was no longer just the case of Eileen getting back on her feet to support Eileen; this was the case of Eileen getting back on her feet to help support Eileen and Henry.

* * *

Sometimes she regrets not telling him after she wakes up to find him staring at her, brows knotted in concentration like he's trying to discern whether or not she's real. Maybe he's seeing her in the same shades of blood and rust and death—or whatever crawled across her skin like giant veins that night.

Or maybe not. She can't be sure, so she just smiles sleepily.

* * *

They had what she considered to be their first Discussion About The Future on the third day of the seventh month after That Incident. The shared rent was a huge step in the general direction of legally-recognized coupledom, and the unspoken shared experience of staring death in the face made each consider his or her future prospects—his _and_ her prospects, as it were.

On the other hand, it _had_ only been a few (four) months since they started this whole Relationship thing, and his parents and a third of his extended family were divorced. If anything, they were _obligated_ to take their time and ease into future engagements (pun not necessarily intended).

In the end, they came to conclusion that they were both equally lame, non-committal people thanks to time and the Townshends' legal legacy.

* * *

It was usually a non-issue, but there were days when it was like nails on a chalkboard in the back of her skull.

_Mom! Let me in! _Shutupshutupshutup.

* * *

They had what she considered to be their first Big Fight five days later. She marched out despite (in spite of) his protests, making the ten-minute trek in the rain to the closest Starbucks. She tucked her soaked self away in the second table from the back, simmering for two hours until she regained enough of her composure to answer her cell phone (she still let it ring five times; she wasn't desperate). She stubbornly declined to let him drive her home but accepted his offer to sleep on the couch.

She spent the last three hours of the eighth day and the first two hours of the ninth day of the seventh month after That Incident curled on her side in an empty bed. She fixed her gaze on the wall, daring it to swallow her up.

* * *

It is eleven months and thirteen days after That Incident, and he's sitting on the couch beside her. They're both facing the flickering TV screen but not necessarily giving it a fraction of their attention. She settles into the couch under the pretense of liking _24_, and he does the same because he likes both an excuse to eat popcorn (its too salty for her) and her company.

"You know," she finds herself drawling, "it's been a year since we met."

She sees him nod absent-mindedly before frowning. "Wait, I swear I paid for more rent in _Ashfield_ than that…"

"I know. I guess I don't count a few nods in the hall as 'meeting'."

"Then when did we meet?"

"In the hospital."

"Which one?"

She doesn't say anything, mostly because she doesn't want to remember, but partially because she doesn't know the answer. They go back to pretending to watch TV. Jack Bauer looks as mad as ever; she figures they aren't missing much.

Seven minutes pass before he finally asks, "do you really look at things like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like everything's relative to that… _That_?"

She flinches, suddenly feeling defensive and not knowing why. "How do you think about it?"

She isn't sure what she expects him to do, but she feels him lean back and put an arm around her shoulders, pressing a palm against the "2" in the "20" etched into her back. "I don't know. I'm not very good with numbers."

She leans back as well, forcing him to remove his hand from her scar so that his arm rests along the back of the couch instead. "Yeah, me neither."

Eileen and Henry sit like that for a long time.


End file.
